


and blood for seed

by strongbut



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Anxiety, Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strongbut/pseuds/strongbut
Summary: “Don’t worry, The Zadash Crier says that it will all be over by the solstice!”In the early hours of the war, Jester catches a glimpse of things to come.





	and blood for seed

**Author's Note:**

> this is a wwi au if the dwendalian empire was a participant and yes i'm aware that makes no sense. caleb was obviously the inspiration for this but he does not appear b/c he's off being a dashing young lieutenant. i wrote this while halfheartedly taking meeting notes at work so uhhhh, sorry if it makes no sense.
> 
> but i have a LOT of ideas where this au can go and how to bring in the rest of the gang so lmk if you would enjoy hearing more!

 

 

_An Autumn softly fell, a harvest home,_

_A slow grand age, and rich with all increase._

_But now, for us, wild Winter, and the need_

_Of sowings for new Spring, and blood for seed._

—Wilfred Owen, “1914"

  


 

In retrospect, Molly is the only one who fully understands what war will mean for them. He’d invited them to his flat for a party ages before and, feeling a bit like sleepwalkers, they saw no reason to cancel their plans over something silly like war being declared. What else were they going to do? Jester spent her remaining pocket money on a dozen newspapers and passed the morning lying on her stomach in front of the fire, desperately searching for some new bit of information that would make everything clear. Then she tried to make a pie and burnt it badly. It was a most unprofitable day and the thing she wanted more than anything, to talk to her mother, was impossible. Apparently facing one’s mortality was a marvelous aphrodisiac; Mama had clients lining up along the street, all clutching their hats in sweaty hands and looking nauseous. Jester is proud of her mother and yet slightly disappointed when it’s time to dress for Molly’s and she still hasn’t so much as passed her in the hall.

Beauregard and Jester split a taxi and half-heartedly gossip about the lord of Whitestone’s most improper marriage and then lapse into sullen silence. Beauregard puffs noisily on a badly-rolled cigarette and, almost ghostly under the passing gas lamps, looks a bit like she’s been crying. Jester wants to say something but isn’t sure what and so chats absently about her postcard collection.

They are the first arrivals and after getting thoroughly winded tromping up five flights of stairs, they find Molly sprawled out on a velvet chaise-longue in a silk robe and very little else, sipping a bowl of champagne and looking distinctly unhappy. There are deep purple bags under his eyes and his nails are ragged from biting. Still, he makes an admirable show, passing around champagne and arguing over the gramophone with Beauregard for a full minute. They compromise on a slow waltz and Jester wonders if it has always sounded so sad or if her burgeoning adult awareness has shifted her understanding.

Beauregard is sullen and, for once, very quiet. She just slouches as best she can in her new corset, avoiding eye contact and clutching her champagne with white knuckles. Molly and Jester make conversation in the easy, childish way they have. It’s all very polite: “Have you heard?” “Oh of course.” “Isn’t it terrible?” “Oh yes, you know my neighbor said…” It is as if they are reciting dialogue in a book.

Halfway through one of Molly’s anecdotes about his friend’s cousin’s nephew who was a soldier and said that army food is absolutely “atrocious, just inedible darling,” Beauregard snaps.

“Are you joining the army?” she barks, Her hand shakes as she lights her fourth cigarette of the night so far and she exhales with a little cough.

Molly, to his credit, doesn’t make fun. He pulls the champagne from the ice bucket and tops up Beauregard’s bowl, then takes a swig from the bottle. Jester feels all her blood rush to her gut and realizes, with a flutter of surprise, that she is frightened.

“I would very much like to not join the army,” he murmurs, almost the tone one would use with a skittish horse. It doesn’t work; Beauregard looks like she might explode into a million pieces if given the slightest provocation.

“There’s going to be conscription,” Beauregard says accusingly. “Fjord is joining beforehand because he wants to be an officer.”

That is a surprise. She had not mentioned speaking with Fjord and for a moment Jester is a little hurt at imagining them discussing their plans without her. Then she sees Beauregard’s face and feels only a deep tenderness.

“Fjord will be a fine officer,” Molly says. “I don’t think I would be, nor do I particularly want to find out. I have ideas. Primarily me going abroad until this all blows over. I hear Ank’Harel is lovely. I know a doctor who can certify that I’m too ill to fight. I have options.”

And he runs a hand through his hair and looks so miserable that Jester can’t help but burst out with: “Don’t worry, _The Zadash Crier_ says that it will all be over by the solstice!”

Beau makes an impatient whining noise and Molly’s face darkens the way it so rarely does, as if all his features become taut and his eyes widen and then squint, and Jester thinks, absently, that he is wrong, that he would make a very good soldier, a horrifically scary soldier.

“That,” Molly says, holding every syllable at the tip of his tongue, “is bullshite.”

Years later, Jester will remember that moment as the real start of the war, when she first felt the bone-deep terror that would eventually color the next four years, staining them with a quiet, empty horror. It feels like a slap, like she’d been asleep and now is wildly, dizzily awake. It is like looking through a camera and twisting the lens until the edges of the world solidify and the image comes into sharp focus. She opens her mouth and then closes it.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you, dear,” Molly says affectionately. “Come now, have some more champagne.”

“Fjord is going to join the army,” Jester echoes dumbly.

“So is Yasha. Apparently there are special regiments for women-- they don’t go onto the frontlines but they are useful. _I_ think she’s mad,” Molly says. “Jester, you _are_ pale, are you alright?”

“Yasha? Is everyone going to war?” She knows she sounds childish but she can’t help it. “I thought it was just like, strong men and soldiers and….” She looks from Molly to Beauregard and swallows her champagne in one gulp. “I read everything I could but I didn’t think that… Yasha?”

“She doesn’t think she has much of a choice. It’s important she prove her patriotism and all that bunk.” Molly makes a rude hand gesture at this sentiment and Jester hears herself giggle without fully understanding why.

“I mean, I don’t want to miss out on the fun if everyone’s going,” Beauregard says quickly, sitting up very straight and jiggling her knee under her gown. Jester understands immediately: Beauregard will go to war. She will follow Yasha. It is already decided. All the earlier angst was just fear and indecision, and now, with someone to follow and a path laid before her, Beauregard already looks happier.

 _Traitor,_ Jester thinks uncharitably.

“Well I’m not going,” Molly announces through another swig of champagne. “Jester, are you with me?” He turns to her and Jester’s stomach twists uncomfortably. She looks away.

“Mama needs me at home,” she mutters and blessedly, no one questions her.

 

* * *

 

Fjord’s arrival is marked with much cheering and clinking of glasses, mostly because everyone enjoys watching him blush at the attention. When Yasha slinks in ten minutes after Fjord, she is immediately monopolized by Beauregard, and the evening progresses with an alarming normalcy. Molly flirts with Fjord and Beauregard with Yasha. Jeste flirts with all of them but especially Fjord. Much drink is consumed. There is a frenetic, almost hysterical edge to their jollity that horrifies Jester even as she participates, laughing uproariously at nothing as she leads Molly in a wild tango.

Later, she watches his fingers shake as he cuts a line of cocaine. Alcohol has not dulled his understanding, only made him pale and sunken, and Jester can so easily imagine him as a corpse.

  



End file.
